


crush

by lazyfish



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, except fitz and hunter are together ish, except for when i don't feel like it, i guess the more accurate description would be, sorry fam, the same events happen as in canon, they're so uninformative, why am i even writing these tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-06-11 20:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15323190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyfish/pseuds/lazyfish
Summary: A series of one-shots through Fitz and Hunter's relationship - how it starts, how it ends, and everything in between.





	1. a man takes his sadness and throws it away

_A man takes his sadness and throws it away_

_but then he’s still left with his hands._

 

* * *

 

Fitz isn’t what sure what, exactly, possesses him to look for the grumpy British mercenary that’s been lurking around the base. It could be because _he’s_ normally the grumpy one and he doesn’t want to be usurped - or it could be because he’s heard what happened to the guy’s friends, and Fitz knows what it’s like to lose someone you love.

He knows everyone processes grief differently, and some people like to be alone… but he also knows that some people want anything _but_ to be alone, and it doesn’t seem like people are exactly lining up at Hunter’s door. If he wants someone there, then someone should be there, even if that someone isn’t exactly the best with emotions.

He knocks on the door to Hunter’s bunk with shaking hands, not altogether convinced that this was a good choice. Jemma’s apparition hadn’t appeared to warn him against it, but neither had she endorsed it. He honestly wasn’t sure which would’ve been worse.

Fitz is about to walk away, assuming the room empty, when he hears a noise from within that sounds suspiciously like someone falling out of bed. A couple of thudding footsteps later, the door swings open.

Hunter’s gripping a beer bottle in his fist. It looks more like a lifeline than a drink. The Brit blinks blearily at Fitz. “What d'you want?” His voice is probably meant to sound harsh, but the edges are dulled by the slur of his words. The beer is obviously not his first. “I told Coulson I’m taking th’night off.”

“I - I know,” Fitz stutters out, regretting his sudden altruism. He doesn’t know how to deal with drunks and he doesn’t know how to deal with emotions, so why is he talking to someone who’s been drinking, who also happens to be an emotional powderkeg? This was a bad idea. “I thought you might want c-company.”

Hunter squints at him, and Fitz shifts under the scrutiny. His hands are shaking worse now, and his brain feels cluttered. He doesn’t like the way it feels.

“Fine. You can come in,” Hunter moves out of the doorway, waving Fitz into the bunk. He was not a tidy person by any stretch of the word, but Hunter was much, much worse. With a cursory glance he can see at least another six bottles of beer, and most of the floor is strewn with clothing that, judging by the smell, hasn’t been washed in a long while.

Hunter sprawls onto the bed and gestures towards Fitz. “You can sit if you’d like.”

Fitz accepts the invitation, sitting gingerly at the foot of Hunter’s bed.

“So, y’need some drunken wisdom or something?” The mercenary asks.

“W-what?” Fitz shakes his head. “No.”

“Huh.” Hunter sits up, taking a long drink. “Not sure why you’re here, then. I don’t have much use unless you wanna get sloshed.”

Fitz closes his eyes, trying to think of anything except _this was a bad idea_. “I’m s-sorry. About your friends.”

Hunter freezes. “S’fine. S’done.”

There’s no sound in the small room except breathing, and Fitz isn’t sure which one of them is beginning to hyperventilate. He doesn’t feel dizzy, so he thinks it might be Hunter, but he can’t be certain.

“D-doesn’t it hurt?” Fitz blurts out. That’s all he knows of loss - the ways he feels broken and bruised. He knows how everything squeezed and warped when Ward betrayed them, how the world didn’t fit right when Jemma left. It had started as discomfort but quickly morphed into pain.

“Like hell,” Hunter replies with a shrug. “Gotta learn to ignore the pain.”

“That d-doesn’t seem healthy,” Fitz says dubiously. He has a spectre of his best friend following him around, so he knows about unhealthy coping mechanisms. He’s pretty sure that repression isn’t good.

“What else am I gonna do?” He drinks again, tipping the bottle to finish it off in one swallow. “Can’t bring ‘em back. Can’t make anyone else care that they’re gone.”

“W-we c-care,” Fitz protests. Jemma’s a bad liar, but Fitz thinks in this moment he might be a worse one, given the look Hunter’s levelling at him. It’s not that he doesn’t care that people died - it’s horrible, death is - but he didn’t know Izzy or Idaho. They were just names and faces, not people.

They were people to Hunter. His people. That much is obvious.

“Mate, I hate to tell you this, but the world doesn’t give a damn about me.” Hunter slams the beer bottle down on his bedside table, and Fitz startles at the sudden noise. He’s surprised the glass didn’t shatter. “You’re a part of the world, ergo, you don’t give a damn.”

“That’s not how logic works,” Fitz mutters to himself. Hunter’s not sober enough to be persuaded by any argument he has to bring. Even if Fitz wanted to argue, he’s sure the words would get stuck between his brain and his mouth.

“Even if I did, hypothetically, do what normal people do and cry or some shit,” Hunter sighs, “I’d still be sad.”

“It’s n-not about n-not being sad.” Fitz doesn’t know how he ended up being the voice of healthy emotional processing, but he’s not good at it. “It’s about accepting it.”

“So the sadness becomes a part of me?” Hunter snorts. “Not bloody likely. I’m already messed up enough without becoming - I don’t know, a raincloud or something.”

Fitz kind of wants to punch Hunter, but he also kind of wants to hug him. He’s obviously not doing as well as he wants to believe, and Fitz swears he can hear an empty rattle in Hunter’s chest every time the other man takes a breath.

“They’re everywhere, you know,” Hunter says after another period of silence. “Iz. Idaho. They’re everywhere.”

This, Fitz can understand. He understands how people ooze into your life, filling in every crack and crevice so you don’t even realize they’re there - until the person is gone, and they leave everything exposed.

Fitz doesn’t like touching people much, but he has a sudden urge to hold Hunter’s hand. He makes a grab for it, and Hunter’s reflexes are too deadened by alcohol for him to pull away. He looks at Fitz, and then at their joined hands, and then back at Fitz again. He doesn’t try to pull away, just keeps looking back and forth like there’s a question he needs answered.

“You don’t need to pity me, Fitz.” The words are surprisingly sharp for someone who’s at least four beers deep, and Fitz wonders if Hunter is trying to stare into his soul.

“I d-don’t.” Fitz replies, reflexively tightening his grip on Hunter’s hand for a moment. He doesn’t want to claim he understands what’s happening to Hunter, but he also doesn’t want Hunter to think that he’s alone in the world just because Izzy and Idaho are gone.

“Okay,” Hunter says quietly. “Just don’t try to fix me, and we’ll be fine.”

Fitz chuckles. “I don’t know how to fix people.”

“Y’know, mate, neither do I.” Hunter laughs, too. Even though the sound is jagged, it makes Fitz smile.

He is sitting in the middle of Hunter’s mess, literally and metaphorically, and it makes Fitz feel better. He’s not the only one who the world seems intent on screwing over.

(Also, he is holding hands with a boy.

This feels good.)


	2. you're a train and i'm a train station

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for referenced child abuse; it's very vague, but better safe than sorry. :)

_You’re a train and I’m a train station and when I try to guess your trajectory I end up telling my own story._

* * *

Fitz wonders if this is what it’s like to have friends.

It’s not that he’s never had friends - he’s had Jemma, and Skye, and he supposes Trip and Coulson and May are his friends, too - but he’s never had friends who bought him beer and forced him to drink it and listened to him talk about girls. Well, _a_ girl, but that’s beside the point, because he has this weird feeling in his stomach when he tells Hunter about Jemma, and he doesn’t know what it means.

Mack is there too, but he knows more about the story behind Fitz and Simmons than Hunter does. He’s good about it, better than most, but there’s something that Fitz appreciates about having someone who’s a clean slate. Well, as much as any person can be a clean slate, which is… not at all, actually.

Suddenly, Mack isn’t there any more, and Fitz knows he’s zoned out again. At least he wasn’t talking to himself. Ghost Jemma hasn’t appeared since Hunter made his toast to moving on, and the buzzing in his gut only intensifies.

Hunter sits in the seat Mack vacated, eyes wandering around the lab but not staying on anything for long.

“You did good with the - with the wires.” Fitz swallows a sip of beer nervously. He wonders if that was why Hunter kept drinking the first time they had a real conversation. It kept a comfortable distance - if Hunter said anything that made Fitz want to run, he could just drink his beer until he felt up to answering it.

“You’re probably the first person in the world to think I’m any good at following instructions.” Hunter laughs, but it’s dry and humorless. Fitz had heard snatches of Hunter’s conversations about his ex-wife and all the things she thought he was useless at, but the bitterness in his voice seems to extend far past a failed romantic relationship.

“W-weren’t you in the army?” Fitz asks.

Hunter stares at him. “Air force, technically, but I fail to see how that relates.”

“You followed instructions then.” Fitz shrugs.

“Little different, I guess.” Hunter doesn’t offer any further comment, and Fitz wonders if he’s prodding at a sore spot. His observations of Hunter thus far have been that the man is grumpy, sarcastic, possibly an alcoholic, and knows how to hold a grudge… but despite all that, he wants to be Hunter’s friend. He liked it when they were in the darkness of Hunter’s room together, holding hands and sitting in the middle of the chaos. Here, in the lab, everything is bright and ordered, and it feels wrong.

“Why don’t you?”

“Why don’t I what?” Hunter furrows his brow in confusion, but Fitz appreciates that he asks for clarification instead of playing guessing games. Sometimes twenty questions is helpful in jogging a word, but other times it clutters up his brain so badly he can’t think of anything, let alone what he had originally been trying to say.

“F-follow directions. If it bothers you that p-people think you d-don’t.”

“I have problems with authority, blah blah blah, like to assert my independence after growing up with a domineering father, more psycho babble that means absolutely nothing.” Hunter’s eyes roll and roll and roll, and it makes Fitz kind of dizzy.

But it also makes the pieces start falling into place, because for someone who calls it psycho babble, Hunter sure does have the phrase “domineering father figure” well-rehearsed.

“I thought you promised you weren’t going to try to fix me,” Hunter says. He’s trying for teasing, but even Fitz can see through the thin veneer.

“I’m not,” Fitz insists. It’s the first explicit reference Hunter has made to their previous conversation. Fitz was beginning to wonder if he was too drunk to remember it, but evidently that’s not the case. “Just…”

“Helping?” Hunter finishes bitterly.

Fitz’s face falls. He didn’t mean it that way - the intrusive way that just screamed _you’re not good enough as you are_.

Hunter stands up, raising his beer in Fitz’s direction. “If you ever want to talk about that girl, you know where to find me.”

“W-wait.” Fitz doesn’t want the conversation to end like this. Hunter’s not angry, or at least not angry in a way that Fitz recognizes, but it’s obvious he’s leaving because he wants to escape.

“S-sorry.” Why does he always end up apologizing to Hunter?

Hunter stops in his tracks, but doesn’t return to his seat. “Fitz, I…” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

“I’ve got one t-too. A -” _Bollocks_. Hunter had just said it, and Fitz had just thought the words, too, but they’ve flown beyond his reach.

“Domineering father?” Hunter suggests quietly. The white fluorescents in the lab cast shadows across his face, but even the shadows can’t hide the look in his eyes.

That is the moment that makes it horribly obvious that neither of them mean domineering when they say domineering.

Fitz nods, feeling his cheeks flush. He had kept his history with his father close to his chest. Of the team, only Jemma knew. But he looks at Hunter and Fitz begins to see more and more of his own reflection, and he just wants Hunter to know that. To know that he doesn’t blame him for being bad with authority. Fitz hates the echoes of his father that are everywhere, and would hate even more if someone thought less of him because of the lasting impacts his father’s actions had on him.

“They’re great, aren’t they?” Hunter sinks back into the chair with a heavy sigh.

Fitz shakes his head, even though he knows the question was both rhetorical and sarcastic.

“D-did yours leave?” Fitz asks quietly. The question is invasive, but Fitz has an inexplicable urge to know how perfect the mirror is. It’s also the first time he’s met someone with a story like his who he’s even somewhat comfortable with, so that probably has something to do with it.

Hunter nods. “You?”

“I was ten.”

Fitz doesn’t expect the rest of the story to come spilling out, but it does the moment he chokes on the age that he, to this day, associates with loss. Hunter listens to the whole thing, and he doesn’t give Fitz the pitying looks that had kept him from sharing his past with anyone else for so long. He just nods in the appropriate places, affirming every single wretched thing Fitz had to say.

He feels empty when he finishes, and his hands are shaking worse than they have in weeks. He put the beer bottle down a while ago, otherwise it would’ve been shattered on the floor.

Hunter stands up, and even though he’s been thoroughly supportive throughout the whole tale, Fitz’s first inclination is to think that the other man is going to leave.

Hunter walks towards him instead of away, though. Fitz isn’t sure which one of them initiates the hug, but Hunter’s touch restarts the buzzing that had faded somewhere during Fitz’s recollection, and it’s not a bad way to fill the hollowness he feels.

Fitz basks in the warmth of another human being. No, that’s not quite right - he basks in the warmth of Hunter, and Hunter specifically. Hunter, who is his friend. Hunter, who sees him more clearly than anyone in the world (except Jemma, of course). Hunter, who makes his stomach hum pleasantly when they are together.

He doesn’t know what this is. He hasn’t felt this way in -

He hasn’t _ever_ felt this way.

When the hug ends - just as when it started, Fitz doesn’t know whose fault it is - Fitz excuses himself, and Hunter lets him go.

Fitz needs more data, he decides. He can’t fathom what he feels for Hunter, but one beer and one conversation that revealed the darkest corners of his soul can’t be the basis for it.

He just needs more data.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count went up. Whoops.


	3. let me tell you what i do know

_Let me tell you what I do know: I am more than one thing, and not all of those things are good._

* * *

So, this is all sorts of fucked up.

Jemma’s back. And so is Hunter’s hellbeast ex-wife (who saved Jemma’s life, which means Fitz can’t even be properly mad at her for - wait, why does he want to be mad at her, again?).

They sit knee-to-knee on Hunter’s bed, and Fitz doesn’t even try to resist when Hunter hands him a bottle, because Jemma’s back, and that’s enough of a reason to drink even without the added stress of… whatever it is he’s feeling with Hunter. More data, Fitz reminds himself. He’s getting more data.

This conversation counts as data collection, right?

“So,” Hunter says, dragging the word out for what feels like eons. “She’s the one that got away.” It almost annoys Fitz that there’s no question in his voice, just fact - but only almost.

“You shouldn’t be talkin’.” He had seen the way Hunter looked at Bobbi. And no one spent hours on end complaining about their ex if there wasn’t still something there. At least, that was what Simmons would say. Or would she?

Confusing Thing #4368 of the day: head Simmons and real Simmons were different people, but he still thinks of them both as _Simmons_.

Hunter rolls his eyes. “Bobbi and I split because of mutual, unadulterated loathing. She’s just acting all high and mighty because she knows it makes me look bad.” He turns the bottle around in his hands, but doesn’t drink from it. “ _Play nice_.” Hunter spits the word like he’s quoting someone, probably Coulson. “How am I meant to play nice with someone who -” He cuts himself off with an angry sigh, balling up the first that isn’t clenched around the beer.

Fitz reaches over and pats Hunter’s knee consolingly. He’s dreading the moment Coulson tells him that Jemma’s going to be back in the lab. It makes sense, Jemma’s brilliant and she _belongs_ in the lab, but working with her is going to be its own form of torture.

Hunter jabs him with a finger. “Rant with me.”

“I’m not angry at Jemma,” Fitz says, wrinkling his nose at the very idea of it. “She’s entitled to her feelings.”

“You’re disgustingly well-adjusted,” Hunter scoffs. “C’mon, aren’t our arsehole fathers supposed to give us an excuse to be bad at relationships?”

“It wasn’t even a _relationship_!” Fitz protests. It wasn’t. He had just told her that he loved her at the bottom of the ocean, and - and she had dragged him to the surface even though that hadn’t been what he wanted. Friends who almost died together. That was him and Jemma. “B’sides, my mum would have a cow if she heard you say that.”

Hunter’s face falls a little. “Ah.”

Fitz frowns. “What?”

“Do you ever wonder how good people end up with bad people?” Hunter asks. It’s a bit of a non sequitur but Fitz can also see the stepping stones that would lead from his statement to Hunter’s question. “I mean - how did our mothers fall in love with our fathers? How did -” Why does Hunter keep dropping off the ends of his sentences? It’s frustrating, because Fitz can’t even finish his own sentences sometimes, let alone others’.

“What?” Fitz repeats himself. He wants Hunter to finish. He wants to know.

“How did Bobbi fall in love with me?” Hunter seems disgusted by the question, but Fitz is disgusted by its implication.

“You’re not a bad person,” Fitz hisses.

“I’m not a good one,” Hunter scoffs in reply.

“We’re not m-m…” He’s lost the word. “We’re not one thing.” _Monolithic._ That was what he had lost the word for. “We’re mosaics, not monoliths.” He’s proud of himself for finding the word, and for saying it without stuttering.

Hunter knocks their knees together. “Careful there, Shakespeare.” Fitz gives Hunter a half-smile. It _was_ a little poetic, which was… well, not something that he got called often, especially not recently.

“Dunno, mate. Maybe you’re right, and we’re a lot of things, but… even if we’re a lot of things, what if most of them are bad?” Hunter looks honestly troubled by the question, and Fitz’s heart aches. He wishes that Hunter would show this side of himself to more people - that he would let them see that he is vulnerable, and he is hurting, and they aren’t making it any better by rubbing his nose in his flaws.

But that’s a lot to ask of someone. Exposing your heart is hard. Giving your heart away is hard, because then people just want to give it back. They want to give it back and run away and leave you still drowning in your own feelings, even if the ocean is miles away. And then they come back, but you’re not even sure if you want them back or if you want something - someone - else.

“You are good.” The words fall off his lips in a whisper.

Hunter snaps his head up, his eyes meeting Fitz’s. Fitz watches, entranced, as Hunter’s pupils dilate, crowding out the swirls of hazel and gold in his irises.

Pupil dilation is a sign of arousal. This is useful data.

Fitz’s mouth is dry. Also a sign of arousal? This is useful data.

Fitz wants to kiss him. This is useful data.

Hunter looks away first, blinking rapidly.

The room feels small. The air is still. It’s hot.

 _Breathe_.

 _Don’t break this moment_.

“You’re better.” Hunter’s voice jerks him back to reality, and Fitz squints at Hunter.

“If I’m good, then you’re better,” Hunter clarifies.

“S’not a competition,” Fitz mumbles.

“Doesn’t have to be.” Hunter shrugs. “Just a statement of fact. I am good, you are better.”

He and Hunter are a matched set, Fitz thinks; fathers who hurt them, inferiority complexes, stubborn streaks a kilometer long. They _match_. And if Hunter is good, then Fitz can’t be better, because they are the same. Not two sides of the same coin, exactly, but if they are mosaics, they have the same pieces, just in a different configuration. That is why no one else can see that they look the same. They see configuration, not composition.

They’re not looking hard enough.

“You are good, I am good,” Fitz says.

“We are good,” Hunter interjects. The words send a shiver marching up Fitz’s spine. They are scary, but they are right. He thinks he has enough data now.

For the second time in his life, Leo Fitz is in Lance Hunter’s bedroom, sitting on his bed. For the second time in his life, he holds hands with a boy.

For the second time in his life, he thinks to himself, _I may be in love_.


	4. there's a niche in his chest

_ There's a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly. _

* * *

 

Fitz knows he’s being entirely un-subtle in the way he seeks Hunter out, but it seems as if the other man is nothing short of oblivious. Hunter’s too busy being angry at Bobbi’s very existence to pay anyone else much mind, Fitz thinks with a forlorn sigh. It’s not that Hunter’s abandoning everyone in favor of Bobbi - just that Bobbi ends up coming up nearly every conversation they have. Granted, part of that is because Bobbi manages to walk into the room nearly every conversation they have.

But Bobbi isn’t here now.

It’s weird, Fitz thinks as he watches Hunter stretch out on the sofa. It’s weird, because he sees how Hunter orbits Bobbi, and that’s made him understand how he orbits Jemma, too. He doesn’t think that Bobbi and Jemma fit the way he and Hunter do, but he could also be wrong - or jealous. He wants someone to be for Jemma what Hunter is for him; someone who is  _ good _ , untainted by ideas of what she should or shouldn’t be. But he also doesn’t want someone like Hunter for Jemma, because the little, selfish part of him doesn’t want Jemma to find someone else to love. Doesn’t want her to find someone better.

Fitz feels bad for those thoughts. He feels bad, because he looks at Bobbi and sees her as competition for Hunter, even when he, Fitz, is actively in love with someone else, too. The idea of having to choose between Hunter and Jemma is dizzying, maddening, because Hunter looks at him and smiles and -

“Penny for them, love?” Hunter asks, turning his face towards Fitz’s. “You look like you’re thinking yourself into a froth.”

_ Why yes, I am thinking myself into a froth because I might love you but also I really only just met you and this is not how things are supposed to go _ . “W-words are h-hard,” Fitz stumbles out instead. “I m-mean, I… h-have to th-think a l-lot.” It’s true that he does have to keep his brain nearly constantly occupied processing the world around him, since he sometimes gets stuck on an idea or a word, but that was not what was happening now. Now Fitz feels even  _ worse _ , because he’s lying. 

“Ah, yes,” Hunter says, nodding sagely. “Going to tell the lovely lady how you feel?” Fitz is sure he imagines the flash of pain in Hunter’s eyes.

“N-no!” He almost shouts at Hunter. “N-no. B-because sh-she’s already m-made it c-clear. That she doesn’t… doesn’t…”

“Feel the same?” Hunter finishes gently. Fitz nods.

“I know the feeling,” Hunter says with a sigh. He’s already fully reclined, otherwise Fitz is sure a dramatic swoon would have accompanied the words. “Women. They have a way about them, don’t they? And it’s even worse, because it’s not even their fault that we destroy ourselves. We’re just stupid, and we don’t know when to stop.” There’s another long sigh, and Fitz tries to parse Hunter’s words. He feels like he’s missing something. Luckily enough, Hunter starts speaking again.

“I’ve never known when to stop, you know? I always hold on too long. It’s so weird to have been told my whole life I wasn’t enough, and then suddenly I’m too much, and -” Hunter stops abruptly. “Am I drunk or something?”

Fitz chokes out a laugh. “What?”

“I just don’t normally talk to people like this,” Hunter says with a shrug. “I mean, like, emotions and stuff. Unless I’m sloshed. Apparently I’m a depressed drunk?”

“You are a bit of a sad d-drunk,” Fitz agrees. Though, to be fair, the one time he had seen Hunter extremely inebriated was after his two best friends had died, so maybe the sadness had less to do with the drunkenness and more to do with the circumstance. Fitz gets up from the chair he was sitting in so he can plop himself in front of Hunter’s sofa instead. This feels like a conversation that should not be had across a room. And if it lets him get closer to Hunter, can it really be that bad?

Fitz is surprised by the fingers that carefully card through his hair. “I’m not drunk now,” Hunter says as he plays with Fitz’s curls. “I just am feeling a lot, I guess.”

“F-feelings are h-hard,” Fitz says. The anguish of the past few days has been enough to prove that to him, if he hadn’t known it already.

“Yeah,” Hunter agrees miserably. He doesn’t stop moving his fingers through Fitz’s hair, and Fitz doesn’t try to pull away. It’s nice. 

“You love B-Bobbi a… a lot,” Fitz offers as neutrally as possible. Maybe he doesn’t like it, but maybe if he offers to talk about Bobbi instead of finding himself irked when Hunter brought her up, it’ll be easier.

“She was the first person who ever tried to see the good in me,” Hunter answers. He doesn’t confirm or deny his loving her, which is interesting. “She made me a better person, right up until she didn’t.” It’s weird to hear Hunter compliment Bobbi after him spending so long downright insulting her, but Fitz finds that somehow, he understands where Hunter’s coming from. He doesn’t know why he continues to be surprised by his understanding Hunter, but he is.

“I see the g-good in you,” Fitz whispers.

“I know,” Hunter murmurs back. “And that’s important to me.” Hunter takes another breath like there’s something more to say, but he’s silent. Fitz wonders if he’s imagining the rattling in Hunter’s chest, breaths echoing in the empty space where a heart belongs.

“Th-thank you,” Fitz says after the silence has stretched long between them. Hunter’s fingers in his hair tighten at the phrase.

“Don’t know what you’re thanking me for. All I did was mope,” Hunter says. He forces a laugh, and Fitz swears he hears the sound of emptiness beneath Hunter’s sternum again.

He wonders what it would feel like to slot his own heart there, where Hunter could keep it safe.

He wonders if it would feel good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was Important to me, because the title is used in [this aesthetic](https://huntxngbxrd.tumblr.com/post/174634280071/leo-fitz-lance-hunter-theres-a-niche-in-his), which was one of the first Fitzhunter things I made, and also, essentially, the reason I became obsessed with Fitzhunter and Siken being paired together (aka the reason this fic exists). Good times!


	5. you're in car with a beautiful boy

_You're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you._

* * *

 

Fitz has had enough of this. He hasn’t been collecting data for long, but it feels like whenever he spends time around Hunter, the same two words are running through his head on loop: _I want, I want, I want_. That hasn’t changed since the moment he looked at Hunter and saw someone he loved staring back at him, and it seems ridiculous to wait any longer. He’s already made that mistake once before, and all it got him was a best friend who might not be his best friend anymore.

(Jemma is not something that Fitz wants to think about, because she’s the only one who makes him pause and consider that maybe this isn’t love. He wants to be decisive for once in his life, and indulging himself in fantasies of Jemma isn’t conducive to that.)

Fitz suspects that Coulson is entirely oblivious to his feelings for Hunter; the older man, like most people on the base, seems to believe that he’s still rapturously in love with Jemma, and that she is the only one he will ever love. Even though he does feel for Jemma, Fitz resents that everyone is projecting some sort of fairy tale romance onto them. They’re just two people, and people are messier than stories.

In any case, Coulson probably doesn’t realize that sending Fitz and Hunter off base together is exactly the right thing to do. Sometimes the base feels more like a prison than a home, and having that weight off his shoulders is a relief for Fitz.

The supply run they’re going on is routine. Everyone has to take a turn getting groceries, otherwise they end up with food that one person loves, but everyone else finds barely palatable - at least in the worst cases.

Fitz is surprised that Hunter isn’t one of these worst cases. He’s grabbing more than just junk food and beer, something that most of the team would call a veritable miracle. Fitz doesn’t think it’s a miracle, exactly (he’s learned not to underestimate Lance Hunter), but he does know that Hunter must be trying to keep others’ dietary preferences in mind.

He even made a shopping list. Lance Hunter _made a shopping list_ , and for some reason Fitz finds that endearing. If his mum could hear his thoughts right now, she’d probably start teasing him about his crush on Hunter, and how the littlest things were what made him the happiest.

Fitz almost flinches at hearing the word crush, even in the confines of his own head. It makes this more real, and considering he had only just come to terms with having to do something about his feelings, it’s overwhelming. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, and hands Hunter another grocery bag to load into the boot of the SUV.

They both get into the vehicle, and Fitz realizes he is running out of time. All through grocery shopping he had been searching for what he could say, but now they’re on the way back to the base and he’s no closer to having the perfect words than he was when he started.

Fitz doesn’t want to stutter through this. At least Ghost Jemma’s gone in the wind, because he doesn’t think he could do this with her sitting in the back seat, encouraging him to talk.

The ride back is quiet, both because it’s short and because he and Hunter have other times to talk than on the road. Fitz almost wishes that Hunter would start a conversation, because then he could somehow twist it into being about feelings, but that doesn’t happen. Fitz has to crack the silence on his own.

“I have something to tell you.” Fitz winces at his own declaration. There may not be a single worse way to start a conversation than ‘I have something to tell you’. It sounds so ominous. At least he hadn’t stuttered, though.

“Alright,” Hunter agrees, ever affable - at least where Fitz is concerned.

“I like you.” The words drop out of his mouth like lead weights. They’re not elegant, but they’re truth, and that’s all Fitz can ask of himself.

“I like you, too,” Hunter answers, not taking his eyes off the road. He’s so casual with it that Fitz thinks he must have misunderstood. That’s more than a little frustrating, considering Hunter can understand his half-formed thoughts. Fitz is going to blame this on the ambiguity of the English language, though - and maybe heteronormativity, for good measure.

“I mean, I _like_ you,” Fitz says, stressing the word. This is not at all like how his love confession to Jemma had gone. Then again, they’re not at the bottom of the ocean, and even if he feels it, saying I love you seems too much, too soon.

“I know,” Hunter says. Again, he’s so relaxed with it that Fitz has to question if Hunter understood at all. They pull into the garage, but Hunter doesn’t move to get out of the car.

“I _like_ you, too.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know if you were into blokes, and you and Simmons are all people like to gossip about, really, and I didn’t know if any advances on my part would be welcome.”

“Oh.” Fitz says. “So…”

“So I like you, and you like me.” Hunter turns to look Fitz straight in the eye. The dashes of green and gold in his eyes are visible even in the dim light of the garage, and Fitz is mesmerized. “But you also like Simmons, and I also like Bobbi.” Hearing it laid out like that is oddly comforting. Fitz is struck by the way they mirror each other in yet another way. He is not the only complicated one.

“Where do we go from here?” Fitz asks.

“Not a clue,” Hunter replies. “I just - I don’t want you thinking that us trying something will erase what I feel for Bob.” He runs a hand through his hair. “If we do… _do_ anything, I wonder if it would make us both happier if we…” He seems hesitant to finish his sentence.

“W-were non-exclusive,” Fitz finishes. The stutter comes back, and he bites his lip. He was hoping he’d be able to go the whole conversation without it.

“Something like that, yeah.” Hunter looks almost ashamed with the request. Fitz reaches out a hand, touching Hunter’s cheek with just the tips of his fingers. A slight tremor runs down his arm, but Hunter leans into the touch nonetheless.

“Okay,” Fitz says.

“Okay,” Hunter repeats.

Fitz takes that to be the end of the conversation, withdrawing his hand from Hunter’s cheek and  moving to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“Just one thing first,” Hunter says. Fitz turns back, confused until the moment a hand curves around the back of his neck. Hunter pulls him in, and their lips meet in a brief kiss. It’s so brief, in fact, that by the time Fitz’s brain has registered what’s happened, Hunter’s already halfway out the door.

Fitz can’t help the smile that spreads on his face. The way his thoughts are jumbled now is pleasant instead of frustrating, the warmth of lips and the roughness of the palms of Hunter’s hands and the bright hazel of curious eyes blurring together into something unfamiliar and intoxicating.

Fitz would like to study this phenomenon extensively - and hopefully, soon.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always crying on [tumblr](https://huntxngbxrd.tumblr.com/) about how perfect Richard Siken quotes are for Fitzhunter's relationship, so I decided I might as well put my money where my mouth is. I've finally settled on a chapter count, so barring any divine intervention (aka great ideas that I cannot stop), expect the chapter count to remain the same. :)


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